


You Just Live

by moonmajik



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonmajik/pseuds/moonmajik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musketeers and D'Artagnan are sent to escort someone back to Paris. But just who is their charge, and what is her connection to the brooding Athos?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Days

**Author's Note:**

> The plot of this story has taken a few beatings since I first started writing it at the beginning of the series, and I have taken a bit of artistic license to the historical references in it. I hope you all are okay with this and enjoy the read!!

“We should leave immediately.” Porthos muttered to his friends. “It’s a long enough journey back to Paris without the added inconvenience of the carriage and having to find suitable inns along the way each night. It might take us two weeks, and the weather looks to be getting worse.”

“We can’t leave until Madame finishes her morning preparations.” Aramis smirked, leaning back in his chair, his feet resting on an empty stool. “The fire is warm and breakfast is still being served Porthos. Enjoy yourself for once. This is an easy assignment.” He raised a mug of beer and smirked across the table at D’Artagnan, who grinned back. The small inn they had stayed in for the past few nights was pleasant enough; the fires were kept warm and the rooms clean. To their surprise, their elegant charge had not complained about the rustic charm of the place and had even dined with them in the common room the night before. Only Athos, their stoic leader, had been absent. A subdued and brooding Athos was nothing new to either of the musketeers and his absence had been noted but not commented on. His absence at breakfast was also nothing of note: the musketeer had been asleep when his friends had returned to their room, three empty bottles beside his bed. The man would probably be nursing a sore head as they set out on their travels that morning. 

Two days ago the musketeers had met a storm battered trading ship at the port of Calais, under the cover of darkness. The captain had eagerly introduced them to his cargo, a young woman that the musketeers were tasked with escorting back to her family in Paris. Muttering about women on his ship, the captain had hurried off, leaving the girl alone with the musketeers, the freezing rain and wind whipping around them. The girl, who had been introduced to them as Madame de la Fere, had gone pale as she stared back at them.

“Please call me Ariene.” She had murmured as Aramis stepped forward to great her. Athos had visibly flinched as his friend had spoken the lady’s name and it was with concern that she had gazed at the man. He had not spoken to any of them since they had settled Ariene in her room late that first night.

“Should we rouse Athos?” Their newest recruit asked innocently as he cut some bread from the loaf the landlady had place in front of them. “We wouldn’t want him to miss breakfast.”

‘He’ll rouse himself when he wants to lad.” Porthos growled, scowling at the breakfast table. “And we’ll leave as soon as he does. I’d like to get back to Paris this side of Christmas.”

“Athos is a little more…subdued than normal.” D’Artagnan remarked. “Do you think something is wrong with him?”

“There’s plenty wrong with him.” Aramis remarked cheerfully. “Never told any of us what it is though. One day perhaps he will enlighten us, until then we will continue to make sure he gets home all right and doesn’t choke on his own vomit. D’Artagnan, I’d be more concerned about Athos if he suddenly started spouting his feelings out in poetry.”

“Yes, that’s much more your style.” Porthos teased his friend, causing D’Artagnan to chuckle.”

“Why are you all sitting around at this hour?” A barked complaint announced the arrival of their friend, dressed in his cloak already with his hat pulled down around his face. “We should be ready to leave. Pack up your belongings and get the horses ready. D’Artagnan, fetch our passenger.”

“Good morning to you too Athos.” Aramis grinned cheerfully as Athos tore bread from the loaf and turned to glare at his cheerful friends. “I trust you slept well.”

“Not as well as you apparently. Come on. It’s a long ride back to Paris with a carriage.”

“I told you.” Porthos nudged Aramis as the three companions stood, D’Artagnan to hurry their lady companion and the others to arrange their travel.

 

The horses were saddled and the bags packed a long while before D’Artagnan reappeared, this time with Madame de la Fere on his arm. The lady wore her red hair in a braid down her back, the rest of her body hidden under a thick cloak. Her skin was pale in the cold weather and she greeted her guards with a small smile.

“Good morning Madame de la… er.. Ariene.” Aramis addressed her uncomfortably as she raised an eyebrow. “Please allow me to assist you into the carriage, and we will be on our way shortly.”

“Will our journey not take three times as long if I am to travel in a carriage?” She asked as she regarded the ornate contraption the musketeers had rented. “I would prefer to ride. It will be quicker, and less conspicuous.”

“A woman riding alone with four men will be more conspicuous than four men guarding a carriage.” Porthos pointed out and she nodded.

“But five men riding together is the most inconspicuous you can get.” She pulled off her cloak and revealed that she had dressed herself in gear similar to that which the musketeers themselves were wearing. The men gaped at her in confusion, unsure where to look and how to react. Ariene wore trousers, cut for men that were tight around her hips and showed off rather a lot more of her shape than the musketeers were used to seeing in a clothed women. The coat she wore, while similar in design to the one Athos wore every day, was tight around her chest in ways it could never be around his. She pulled a hat from under the cloak and tucked her hair up into it. While the disguise would not bear any scrutiny as the fine lines of her face did not resemble any man they knew, and the curves of her body betrayed her immediately, the clothes would allow her to ride a horse without any questions being raised.

Secrecy was a major part of their mission. Treville had imparted on them the importance that as few people knew of their charge’s arrival back into Paris as possible. One by one, Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan turned to Athos, seeking his approval for the ladies plan. Athos, who had not taken any notice of the arrival of D’Artagnan with Ariene, was now staring at the woman, his lips slightly apart. It was obvious to those who knew him best that there was a war going on behind his eyes as the man struggled to find words. After a few long moments, Athos gave a curt nod and then turned back to his own preparations. Not long after that, the five were mounted and on their way, the carriage left behind in Paris.

D’Artagnan rode close to Ariene for the first leg of their journey, intrigued by the idea of this woman dressed as a man and pretending to be a man. The low voices of the two chattering together calmed the mood and soon Porthos and Aramis joined in, the conversation turning to the past. Only Athos rode ahead, silent and focused on the road.

“My Uncle wishes that I return to Paris.” Ariene was answering D’Artagnan’s query. The young man had asked her why she was travelling in the middle of winter. “I believe it is for political reasons, although I am sure the same reasons could have waited for spring in the mind of anyone else. My Uncle is very used to getting his own way.”

“Who is your Uncle?” 

“I believe you know him.” Her eyes sparkled. “His name is Louis.” The small party stopped suddenly as Aramis and Porthos pulled up their mounts and stared at her.

“You are the King’s Niece? And we are letting you ride around dressed as a man? We’re going to get hanged for this.” Aramis looked worried. “Did you know about this?” He demanded, raising his voice to reach Athos, who hadn’t stopped at the revelation. The man didn’t answer and Aramis spurred his horse on to catch up with their friend.


	2. Traveling Rations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was concerned I had made Athos a little moody... then I re-watched an episode and realised perhaps he was not moody enough!!

The carriage would have had one advantage, she reflected during a quieter moment on their journey to the capitol city of France. The roof would have sheltered her from the icy cold winds that blew in from the north and the flurries of snow brought along with them. But it would have also been incredibly boring, she told herself as she pulled her cloak tighter around her, the hours would have been much longer and she would have had far too much time to herself. Time to herself was something she tried to avoid as much as she could, and she had had enough of it on the ship during the crossing. Mild seasickness had confined her to her small cabin, and her only company had been the ship’s cabin boy, who had been sent down with her meals twice a day. She shuddered slightly at the memory of the journey and the movement attracted the concerned gaze of the most charming of her four protectors: Aramis. A quick smile to reassure him was all it took to keep his attention from her, the man turning back to his quiet conversation with Porthos as they walked their horses across the frozen ground. She watched the two men for a moment, enjoying being able to observe their close but easy friendship. 

Her eyes lingered for a moment and then slipped past them to their leader, who rode several paces ahead in complete silence. He hadn’t spoken a word to anyone for the whole journey, barely acknowledging the presence of his three friends, never mind her. Seeing Athos standing at the end of the gangway had been enough to send her shrinking back into the relative safety of her tiny cabin, and she had stood with her back to the door, her eyes closed and breathing as deeply as she could to stave off the sheer panic his presence had caused. The command to return to France had been unwelcome, shattering the more peaceful existence she had built up in Scotland, living first at the court of the English Queen Anne, then hidden away with the wife of a prominent nobleman and then finally as a lady in waiting for her younger aunt, Henrietta Marie, who had arrived in England not even a year ago. It had taken all of her courage to step onto the ship as it left Plymouth harbour, and even more of her strength to leave it. The captain had had to send the boy to retrieve her and she had had to clench her fists at her side to stop from shaking as she looked down at the four men her uncle had sent to protect her.

Four musketeers, she mused as their rear guard, D’Artagnan pulled his horse level with hers. Four of the King’s fighting elite. It had seemed rather excessive, but only a few hours into their journey she had found that she appreciated their company and she was glad of the presence of Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan. 

“How long were you in England for?” D’Artagnan was the least respectful of her guards; Aramis and Porthos had at least addressed her as Madame when they had spoken to her. His bluntness was a little refreshing and amused her slightly, and at least a conversation with the youngest musketeer would keep her mind from its ramblings and her eyes from the brooding musketeer in the front.

“A little over five years.” She smiled but D’Artagnan could see little joy in her smile. “I was sent to serve in the court of Queen Anne, but she died a month after I arrived. King James sent me to the household of George Calvert, who was, I believe, an ambassador to Paris during my Uncle’s coronation. King James believed that Monsieur Calvert and his wife would tame my wild, catholic ways.” She laughed.

“Did it?” D’Artagnan curiosity was obviously piqued and he tilted his head towards her.

“Madame Calvert was very kind to me, and Monsieur Calvert was often away. When he was home, we engaged in rather lively discussions upon the subject. I do admit when I arrived in England there was little room in my heart for God and religion. If King James thought I was wild and untamed he was sorely mistaken.”

“So they did convert you from Catholicism?”

“When Madame Calvert, god rest her soul, died three years ago, Monsieur Calvert resigned from his positions of political power and announced his conversion to Catholicism.” D’Artagnan laughed loudly at her admission and Porthos and Aramis paused, turning in their saddles to look back at their friend. As Ariene and D’Artagnan caught their companions up, they struck up a lively discussion regarding the ins and outs of their chosen religion. It was only then, in an open discussion with Aramis about the downfalls of the Protestant faith did she realise that she was back in a Catholic country and could express her religious beliefs without fear of retribution. Her young Aunt, Henrietta Marie had arrived in England only six months ago and had faced immediate suspicion on the grounds of her religion. The church had refused to crown her Queen of England until she converted, and so far her aunt was staunchly refusing to do so. Ariene knew Henrietta faced a difficult time with the English nobility, as suspicion of those worshiping the Catholic faith was still high, even ten years after the failed plot to blow up King Charles.

It only seemed like a small while later that Athos turned his horse off the road and led the other four to a small clearing in the low shrubbery that had been lining the road. Following him, Aramis cheerily translated the change in direction to Ariene.

“This means it is now time to eat. I’m glad, the sun getting low in the sky and any normal gentleman would be about ready for an evening meal.”

“Once again Aramis, you practice your talent for exaggeration. It is not yet past four in the afternoon.” Porthos dismounted as they reached a place the horses could graze happily while the travelers settled their stomachs. As Ariene shakily dismounted, she realised just how hungry she was. Stepping away from her horse was hard, a full morning of riding in the cold had left her with sore muscles, and parts of her body she had not realised could stiffen hurt as she walked. Grimacing, she found herself once more thinking about the comforts a carriage would have provided. Gritting her teeth, she pulled her hat from her head and allowed her braid to unravel, combing her hands through her auburn waves. Porthos passed out food from his pack, bread, cheese and a small amount of cold meat.

“We should be able to get our evening meals at the inns we find lodgings at each night,” he told Ariene by way of apology for her meager meal as she eagerly took it from him. “I know it’s not much, but its travel rations.”

“Thank you Porthos.” She tore a small bit of bread from her chunk, trying her hardest to conceal her disappointment that their meal was not a little more substantial. She had not eaten during the ocean crossing and she was still feeling the effects of the seasickness. The musketeers ate in silence, and as she slowly consumed the meal in her hands her thoughts drifted back to the events of the last few days.

When it had become clear that Athos was not going to formally acknowledge her introduction from the captain, Aramis had stepped forward to break the awkward silence. He had introduced the four musketeers to her and she had smiled, somewhat distractedly, and said all the right responses to their introductions. They had taken her to the inn they had installed themselves in to wait for her arrival, and left her in her room for the rest of the night. She had cried herself to sleep; plagued with memories she had hoped she would not have had to face for a few more days.

The next morning had been a test of her strength, a test she had almost failed. She remained in her room for the morning, hiding under the blankets. A knock on the door after lunch had been served in the common room downstairs roused her, D’Artagnan had been sent up to ensure she was alright. After a talk with the young man, she confirmed to her relief that Athos was indeed not with the rest of the musketeers, she gathered up her courage to join them for lunch.

She was pulled from her brooding by Aramis handing her a couple of apple from his pack.

“One for you and one for your horse.” He winked at her. “And you had best prepare yourself for another long ride. The horses will have had sufficient rest and Athos will want us to be on our way. We won’t be at the inn until after dark as it is.” A movement caught Ariene’s eye: Athos had looked over as he heard his name. He had spent their short lunch break sitting apart from the others, his hat still pulled down over his face. Aramis followed her eyes and realised she was regarding their sullen friend. “Don’t mind Athos. He prefers his own company most of the time. I’m sure he likes you just as much as the rest of us do.” Ariene managed a shaky smile as Aramis offered her his arm to help her stand. Her muscles protesting at the movement, she thanked him for his help and together they turned to coax their horse back into service.

After a laughter-filled half an hour of trying to catch D’Artagnan’s mischief filled mare, with the young man insisting that his horse was not usually as bad mannered and Aramis and Porthos both insisting the opposite was true, they were ready to leave. One by one, the musketeers swung themselves up into their saddles and Ariene, marveling at how her mood could change so easily, stared up at her mount with a little trepidation. 

“Can you manage alright?” The quiet voice behind her made her whirl round, and she found herself face to face with Athos, the man who had determinedly avoided her for the past few days. In her shock, she opened her mouth to reply, but found her voice had deserted her, leaving her gaping up at him. Embarrassed, distressed and unable to do anything else, she turned away from him and swung herself into the saddle of the horse, leaning forward to pat the animal and to avoid looking at Athos. When she finally got up the courage to look back down at where he had been standing, he was gone, taking his place a few yards in front of the group.


	3. Ambush

They rode for most of the afternoon in silence broken by the odd conversation here and there. They talked of simple things, Ariene asking for news of Paris during her absence. The letters from her aunts talked only of the latest gossip and fashion: they had liked to ensure that her dress followed the correct French fashion rules despite her absence at their court, and her Father had not seemed to consider her worthy of discussion politics and current affairs with, as his letters were short and assured her only of his health and asked after hers. Aramis was more than obliging in answering her questions of the goings on of Paris in the past five years, even if she did notice that most of his awareness of the major players in French politics was through their wives. 

“You do seem to have made the acquaintance of a lot of the ladies of the court Aramis.” Her comment drew a snort of laughter from Porthos, who jolted his horse into speeding up a little so he could draw level with his friend.

“Interesting word, acquaintance.” He teased. “What does it mean again, Aramis?” The dark haired man retorted with a phrase not generally considered fit to be repeated in front of a lady, which caused Athos’ to turn his head back and glower at his two friends and D’Artagnan, who had been riding next to Ariene, to look scandalized. There was a short silence, as Aramis considered the phrasing for his flowery apology, until Ariene let out a rather unfeminine grunt of laughter. Porthos joined in and soon, the four of them were giggling away as they walked their horses down the road, Athos doing his best to remain disproving at the front of the group.

Suddenly, without warning, there was a loud cry and dark shapes jumped out of the shadows cast by the setting sun. The musketeer’s horses, used to such events, merely sidestepped and allowed their riders to command them to respond to the new danger. Ariene’s horse, used as she was to pulling a slow rolling carriage around the sedentary streets of Calais, reared in panic as the bandits jumped out of the bushes. Ariene lost her grip on the mare’s reigns and fell heavily to the floor with a cry.

At the first sign of trouble, Athos had drawn his sword and tightened his grip on his horse. His mount responded to his touch, wheeling around to charge back to the small group who had been a few strides behind him. Aramis and Porthos had already dismounted and were engaged with four of their attackers, the clash of metal on metal as their swords, and the angered cries of his friends mingling in the background. A scream turned his head as their charge’s horse reared, throwing her to the ground and bolting. Athos realised with a jolt, that despite her musketeer attire, Ariene was unarmed and vulnerable and their attackers numbered many. One had already noticed her on the ground and seized the opportunity, running towards her with a sword raised. Athos spurred his mount forward, lifting his sword to knock the man out of the way. Another scream left Ariene’s mouth as Athos’ sword sliced through her attacker, blood splattering her face. Athos’ drew his pistol and shouted down to her.

“Run. Ariene, run.” When she failed to move he shouted for his friend. “D’Artagnan! Get her away.” He did not stay to ensure she was safe, trusting the young Gasgon to carry out his orders without question. Athos’ jumped from his horse and threw himself into the ongoing battle, fighting side by side with Porthos and Aramis. He felt the hot sting of metal slicing into his flesh as the sword of one of the attackers caught the side of his arm. Athos swore and retaliated, loosing himself to the familiar feel of the adrenaline rushing through his blood.

The battle was short but ferocious and all three of the musketeers supported cuts and bruises by the time they had won. Out of breath, Aramis leant against the tree and coughed, his blade still in his hand. He surveyed the carnage around them.

“Well, so much for a quiet easy assignment.” He raised an eyebrow at Porthos who smirked.

“I’m starting to believe there is no such thing.” He bent to roll over one of their attackers. “Rather of lot of them for a highway robbery, do you not think? And rather brave of them to attack musketeer’s on the road. Think there’s something else going on?”

“When is there not.” Aramis muttered. “Athos, are you alright? That might need stitches.” The man in question looked down at his arm, dark with his own blood and shrugged.

“’M fine.” He muttered, preoccupied with searching through the bodies, looking for any clue as to their purpose. Porthos was right, the situation was odd. While they were travelling on one of the busiest roads in France, the time of the year was wrong for travellers and they had not come across any others during their first day on the road. Traditionally, the winter months were not high risk for robbery on the road. And for a group of bandits to attack a group of heavily armed musketeers… something did not quite add up.

“There’s nothing out of the ordinary on any of these bodies.” Porthos muttered. “They just don’t look as if they have been living the lives of highwaymen.” Each of the corpses were well dressed and the men looked well fed, their cheeks lacking the usual gaunt look the musketeers were used to seeing in such men.

“Hmm.” Athos grumbled, his almost permanent from back on his face. As the adrenaline from the fight wore off his arm was started to throb.

“Where’s D’Artagnan?” Aramis glanced around for their apprentice musketeer.

“He took Ariene to safety.” Athos’ words were tight. “We should find the horses and make for the inn. We don’t know how many there were, they could have been followed. We’ll report the attack when we reach the town.”

The couldn’t reach the town fast enough and Athos had set a punishing pace once they had found the horses waiting patiently a little further down the road. Ariene’s spooked mount was nowhere to be found and Athos had not wanted to waste precious time in finding her. She would, with a little luck, have turned her head towards home, and would be in back in her own stable within the next few days. Chasing after a wayward horse was not high on his list of things to worry about. Chasing their wayward recruit and the girl they were meant to be protecting was. Aramis and Porthos followed Athos as the urged their horses forward, keeping an eye out for any signs of trouble along the road.

“Athos!” A shout from Aramis halted the small group almost instantly. They dismounted together and Aramis led the way to what had caught his eye, the other two racing after him. On the ground some few metres away from the edge of the road was two bodies could be seen lying half in a bush, and only a slight distance away from the outstretched hand of one of the bodies, lay an extremely familiar pistol.

“D’Artagnan!!” Porthos had seen the pistol at the same time as Aramis and the two reached the bodies at the same time. Turning the closest one over, he couldn’t help but let out a soft cry of relief as he gazed into the unfamiliar face of one of the highwaymen, his eyes open in fear of death. Aramis uncovered the face of the second, confirming that neither of their companions were present. Athos, a mere breath away from punching one of the trees in a mixture of relief, frustration and worry, bent down to retrieve the pistol they had all recognised as their friends.

“This has been fired recently.” He commented in what would have been considered a nonchalant way to anyone that did not know him, but Porthos and Aramis picked up on the tightness of his voice and the hard look in his eyes.

“Neither of these men have gunshot wounds.” Aramis glanced over them briefly. “How did they get D’Artagnan’s pistol.” He turned worried eyes to Porthos, who shrugged, his own eyes on Athos who was poking around the rest of the area. There were obvious signs of a fight, broken branches in bushes and a fair amount of blood marking the grass.

“Aramis.” Athos called his medically trained friend to his side as he stared down at something in the grass. Aramis, alert to the odd, strained tone of Atho’s voice, hurried over, Porthos not far behind. The three musketeers stood staring in barely concealed dismay at the large pool of blood that Athos had stumbled upon. Lying on the ground half covered in the dark, sticky liquid was a coat that each of the recognised. The coat that Ariene had stolen from the inn earlier that day and had been wearing as a defense against the cold all day. “That’s a lot of blood Aramis.” The closest thing they had to a field doctor nodded, his face grave. As the last light of the setting sun illuminated his face, he touched a hand to Athos’ arm and spoke words that sent a chill down his companion’s spines.

“Too much blood. Who ever lost that much blood just lying here… I don’t like their chances.”


End file.
